


The Honey Pot

by AlwaysJohn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Humor, Humor, It's a case John, M/M, Some Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-10
Updated: 2018-01-10
Packaged: 2019-03-02 22:28:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13327692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlwaysJohn/pseuds/AlwaysJohn
Summary: It was barely a three, but Mrs. Abernathy was a friend of Mrs. Hudson’s and Sherlock couldn’t disappoint her after all their landlady-not-housekeeper did for them.





	The Honey Pot

Sherlock crouched down in front of the elderly woman, listened with feigned interest, nodded here and there. John could see his detective’s patience holding by a thread, and a thin one at that. When they were alone, he’d have to praise him for his pleasant manner toward their new client. That thought made it very difficult to suppress a smile.

It was barely a three, but Mrs. Abernathy was a friend of Mrs. Hudson’s and Sherlock couldn’t disappoint her after all their landlady-not-housekeeper did for them.

“So, Mrs. Abernathy of the Abernathy’s Olde Sweet Shoppe, what is it you would like me to do for you?”

“Well, Mr. Holmes.”

“Please, Mrs. Abernathy, call me Sherlock, and this is my..colleague, Dr. Watson.” 

John tipped his head and smiled. Colleague, indeed, he thought, catching Sherlock’s smirk when he cast a sidelong glance his way.

Berk.

“Oh, no, I couldn’t do that, Mr. Holmes.”

“Very well, then, tell me your concerns.”

“Well, over the last week, jars of Abernathy honey, which my brother delivers from his small farm in the countryside, have disappeared from my shelf.”

“Just like the bees are disappearing, Sherlock.”

Sherlock shot him an exasperated, scorn-filled look.

“Do you have employees?”

“Just the one. Timothy stops by to give me time for tea away from the front.”

“And do you suspect this person? This Timothy?”

“Oh, heavens, no. He’s a good boy. He’d never steal from me, he just wouldn’t.”

“Have you noticed a pattern to the loss?”

Mrs. Abernathy paused, her confusion obvious in her frown.

Sherlock tapped his impatient fingers on his knee, a definite sign that John needed to step in.

“Mrs. Abernathy, what Sherlock needs to know is whether the loss of your honey happens on a particular day of the week or time of day? That would help us to put all the pieces together to solve your problem as soon as possible.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at John. John smiled back, using the waggle to his eyebrows as signal for Sherlock to be good and there would be a reward when they got back to Baker Street.

Sherlock huffed, but he wore a grin that Mrs. Abernathy, in her consternation, thankfully missed.

The elderly woman pursed her lips, returning her gaze to Sherlock. “Well, I have noticed that there is one new client who stops each Wednesday, around the time I have my elevenses of tea with a cinnamon and cream scone. Timothy says he never purchases anything, he just looks and he’s gone before I return.”

“And you indicated that you take your tea and scone away from the front of the shop?” 

“Yes, that’s correct.”

John watched with interest at the way Sherlock gleaned data from the woman and extrapolated the meager data. It was plain to see where Sherlock was headed. Any idiot could see it.

John frowned when he realised he’s just labeled himself an idiot. He sniffed, which drew Sherlock’s attention for all of three seconds, and using the Holmes method, deleted it.

The detective concluded his interview and stood, his knees snapping from his too long crouched position. He winced as he shook out his legs with a move only John would notice.

Middle age comes to everyone, he thought. He’d already reached that point, but Sherlock, at forty, wasn’t far behind. A soak in a warm tub, with some lavender or one of Sherlock’s mind, altering bath scents would do. He could almost smell it from where he stood, several streets away from the flat. Excusing himself seemed the appropriate thing to do at that moment to avoid embarrassment.

“Oh, my,” Mrs. Abernathy exclaimed, suddenly pushing herself out of her chair. “It’s half-nine already. I have to open the door now.”

“Mrs. Abernathy, tomorrow is Wednesday. I will be here at exactly ten, to meet your employee, Timothy, and to observe the..client you suspect. John will accompany me and observe from within the customer area of the shop.”

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes. Oh, yes, tomorrow is the fifteenth of the month, when I have a small vat of honey available for my patrons to taste for themselves the extraordinary flavor of my brother’s honey. There will be scones, too.”

“Very well, Mrs. Abernathy. If what I suspect comes to pass, I shall consider a scone and a bit of honey for myself and my colleague, Dr. Watson, as full payment for services rendered.”

John caught Sherlock’s eye and shook his head slowly. “Good boy,” he mouthed.

He thought he could see a shiver travel up the detective’s spine.

oo00oo

“So, the honey is disappearing?” John queried as they walked home to Baker Street “It was very gracious of you to take the case, Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson was pleased when I told her we were going to meet with Mrs. Abernathy.”

“Gracious had little to do with it, John. I am never gracious. I was bored, this is a three and it gets us out of the flat. The promise of a reward for being pleasant for a short time was well worth the effort.”

“Numpty.”

Sherlock stopped walking suddenly nearly causing a collision of pedestrians on the pavement. John took his arm and pulled him off to the side, where they were less likely to cause bodily injury.

“Have I negated my reward, John?” Sherlock asked with a barely disguised smile.

“You know, sometimes, you aren’t a very good actor.”

Sherlock leaned down to align their mouths and stole a kiss. “Is that the same as, what is it you said once, oh, yes. I remember.”

“Remember what?”

“I paraphrase, as the exact wording escapes me at this moment.”

“I doubt that. Very little escapes you.”

“True, but nevertheless..”

“Get on with it, what is it that I once said to you? And by all means, paraphrase, if you must. Your Sherlockery is giving me a headache.”

“For a genius, sometimes you’re awfully thick.”

John stared up at him, trying to gauge his seriousness. When he saw the twitch at the corner of his mouth, he knew.

“Let’s go home, Sherlock, we both need a bit of a kip.”

“Elemen-”

“No! Don’t say it, Sherlock. That is just not on.”

“I have never, would never say that. Where do you get your silly ideas, my dear doctor?”

“Shut up, Sherlock.” John said through clenched teeth and an emphasis on the ‘t’ and a pop on the ‘p.’ If he were honest, he performed a passable impression of his companion.

Sherlock’s silence for the rest of their walk was refreshing.

oo00oo

The next morning, John pushed through the door of the Abernathy Sweet Shoppe at half ten, with Sherlock just behind. The elderly owner pottered, putting straight the perfectly stationed jars of honey. 

“Good morning,” she said pleasantly, playing her part of the genial shoppe owner as Sherlock had instructed her over the phone the previous evening. He’d appeared a bit perturbed at the time. John knew the great detective prefered to text.

Sherlock had dressed in jeans to be less conspicuous. John, who rarely saw him in any attire but a suit and button up or pyjamas, or occasionally, draped in a sheet-he prefered his detective naked-the sight of him dressed in such a way left him staring with his mouth open and suddenly so very dry that he could hardly swallow. The impact on his nether region was immediate and painful, but there was no time to alleviate the discomfort before they had to depart the flat.

Sherlock stared at him, worry causing the bridge of his nose to rumple. Two thoughts of Mycroft were enough to chase away his discomfort. John felt much better and was able to continue their walk to the shoppe without causing a disturbance in the universe.

In the shoppe, John played his part, wandering around the displays, watching Sherlock as he did the same. He was enlisted to carry the small vat of honey to the front counter while Mrs. Abernathy arranged the scones and disposable spoons.

A queue developed just minutes before a young boy dashed through the door. “Sorry I’m a little late,” he called. John noticed the bruise in the shape of fingerprints on his cheekbone, a sight that immediately raised a red flag for him. Not good.

“Timothy? What happened to your cheek?”

“It’s okay, Gran. What do you need me to do?”

“I want you to meet two new friends of mine.”

Sherlock rushed from his observation corner on the other side of the shoppe. Extending his hand in greeting, his eyes narrowing at the sight of the marks on the boy’s face, he introduced himself.

“Hello, Timothy, I’m William and this is my best friend, John. Your gran was just telling us that you help her watch the shoppe for her while she takes her tea?”

“Yes,” he said, shaking John’s hand while staring up at Sherlock. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Thank you, John said, his gaze pivoting from Sherlock to Timothy.

“Why aren’t you at school? Timothy?” John asked.

“My mum was a teacher. I don’t go to school because I can’t learn there, so she teaches me at home.”

John nodded, but there was a niggling deep in his gut that he didn’t like very much.

“I have to help now. It’s almost time.”

John sensed that Sherlock found Timothy’s suddenly aborted comment troublesome, and there wasn’t time to find out what was racing through his genius’s head, but there was definitely something in the air around Sherlock.

At a quarter to eleven, the hair at the nape of John’s neck stirred. By the suspicion he observed on Sherlock’s face, a non-lethal Vatican Cameos, in the form of a man entering the shoppe at that moment. John shifted his attention from the newcomer to Timothy, and, as certain as he was of Sherlock’s intention to move in on the man, John approached as well. A quick look from Sherlock told him all he needed to know. There, nearing the honey jars, was their thief. 

The man, clearly waiting for the shoppe to be clear of a number of customers, and apparently waiting as well for Mrs. Abernathy to break for her elevenses, continued to inspect the obvious objects of his intention.

John caught sight of Timothy’s face and the fear in his eyes, and knew at once that the man was responsible for the marks on Timothy’s face. When he glanced Sherlock’s way, it appeared he was of the same mind. 

The detective strolled closer to the probable suspect, but did not engage. John watched from his new position, blocking Timothy’s line of sight.

“Is he your dad? Is he the one who put those marks on your face?” John whispered so softly, he was afraid Timothy wouldn’t hear him. The doctor breathed easier when the young boy, no more than twelve, shook his head, not taking his eyes from the honey pot in front of him.

“Would you like to try a scone with honey, sir?” 

Noting the boy’s hesitant, shaky offer, John kept the conversation brief and friendly. “Yes, I would. And would you put a scone and a small bit of honey in a plastic carrier bag for me to bring home for my best friend?”

“All right.”

John pulled a note from his wallet, more than was needed for the small purchase and handed it to the boy. He took a bite of the honeyed scone, shaking his head as he chewed quickly and swallowed.

“Your mum’s boyfriend, then? Is he stealing from your gran?”

“Yes.”

“All right, Timothy. My friend William and I are going to take care of that. He won’t ever hurt you again.”

“You can do that?”

“Yes. Right now I want you to go to your gran and keep her there for a bit until we settle this out here. No matter what you hear, don’t come out until I tell you it’s okay.”

“Yes.”

“Go right now, Timothy.”

“Yes, sir, John?”

John leaned across the counter to keep their voices from carrying.

“I hate him because he hurt my mum, and he said he’d kill her if I don’t let him take the honey.”

“Don’t worry. Everything will be all right. Go now.”

Timothy turned and quickly disappeared from view.

John strolled over to stand on the other side of their suspect. Sherlock was already in some sort of conversation with him and neither of them looked very happy.

“So, you steal from your girlfriend’s mother, sell it for however much you charge. Why?”

“I think the man asked you a question,” John said, keeping his voice low and hopefully dangerous. “My advice to you is to answer the question.”

“Fuck you.”

“Nope, no, just no.”

Sherlock locked his long fingers around the man’s bicep. Instantly, John knew it was not the best thing to do. The man turned on him, trying to pull free, and in the scuffle that ensued, John took an elbow to his abdomen, and fell to the floor with the wind knocked out of him. Struggling to breathe, he got to his feet just as Sherlock was sent crashing into the free-standing counter, pushing it back several feet.

John tackled the man, and with a single punch, knocked him unconscious. Pulling from his jacket pocket the one and only zip tie he’d never thought he’d ever have to use, but Sherlock insisted he carry, John expertly slipped it around the man’s wrists and left him to tend to Sherlock.

He turned, and stopped dead. Sherlock sat on the floor, his long legs out in front of him. John hurriedly suppressed a laugh when he saw that the honey pot had tipped over, its contents spreading slowly onto the counter and dripping over the edge..and onto Sherlock’s dark curls. It didn’t stop there; the sweet concoction was slowly advancing downward to his cheeks.

John sat down next to him and took his hand. “Hi there, Pooh. Wotcha doin’?”

“Droll, John.”

John giggled. “Sussex still looking good?”

Sherlock glared at him. “At moments like this, John, I long for the day.”

John leaned over him and licked the honey from his lips. Sherlock said nothing, but his groan was..suggestive of things to come. John looked forward to it.

After the police took their suspect away, and John had wiped away the excess honey so Sherlock wouldn’t drip, they said their goodbyes to Mrs. Abernathy and her grandson, Timothy.

The walk to Baker Street was short and oh, so sweet.


End file.
